simply to kneel, and that if he moves, he will be slain; some captors, to their
amusement, leave such prisoners, returning Ahn later, to find them in the same
place; the prisoner, of course, does not know if they have merely moved a
hundred feet away or so, to rest or make camp, all he knows is that if he does
move a foot from his place he may feel a scimitar pass suddenly through his
body. In the hood, too, of course, the prisoner does not know who might strike
or abuse him. He is alone in the hood, with his confusion, his ignorance, his
unfocused misery, his anguish, helpless. The second major function of the hood
is to conceal from the prisoner his location, where he is and where be is being
taken, it produces disorientation, a sense of dependence on the captor. In the
case of the march to Klima, of course, the hood serves to conceal the route from
the prisoners of the chain. Thus, even if they thought they might live for a
time in the desert, in trying to flee, they would have little idea of even the
direction to take in their flight, The chance of their finding their way back to
the kasbah of the Salt Ubar, and thence, say, to Red Rock, would be small, even
if they were not hooded; hooded, on the Klima march, of course, the chance,
unhooded, of finding their way back at a later time would be negligible. This
disorientation tends to keep men at Klima: fewer of them, thus, die in the
desert. The second two functions of the slave hood, relative to the march to
Klima, were specific to the march. Mercifully, the hood tended to protect the
head from the sun; one does not go bareheaded in the desert: secondly, the
darkness of the hood, when the salt crusts were reached, prevented blindness,
from the reflection of the Tahari sun off the layered, bleak, white surfaces.
These hoods, used on the march to Klima, have a tiny flap, closed and tied with
a leather string, at the mouth, through which, several times during the day,
opened, the spike of a water bag, carried by kaiila, is thrust. The men are fed
twice, once in the morning, once at night, when the hood is opened, and thrust
up some inches to permit eating. Food is thrust in their mouths. It was
generally dried fruit, crackers and a bit of salt, to compensate for the salt
loss during the day’s march, consequent on perspiration. Proteins, meat, kaiila
milk, vulo eggs, verr cheese, require much water for their digestion. When water
is in short supply, the nomads do not eat at all. It takes weeks to starve, but
only, in the Tahari, two days to die of thirst. In such circumstances, one does
not wish the processes of digestion to drain much needed water from the body
tissues. The bargain would be an ill one to strike.
Ibn Saran had turned his kaiila toward Hassan. He looked at him for a time. Then
he said, “I am sorry.” Hassan did not speak. It had puzzled me that Ibn Saran
had spoken thusly to Hassan, a bandit. Then Ibn Saran turned his kaiila again,
and prepared to depart the chain.
“Ibn Saran,” I said.
He paused, and guided the kaiila to my side. The men were closer now, fastening
on the prisoners the slave hoods.
“Slave runs to Earth by agents of Kurii,” I said, “have been discontinued.”
“I know,” he said.
“Does that not seem curious?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Priest-Kings,” I said, “received an ultimatum, ‘Surrender Gor.’“
“That is known to me,” said he.
“Might you clarify that ultimatum?” I asked.
“I assume,” he said, “it betokens an intention to invite capitulation, before
some aggressive stratagem is initiated.”
“A stratagem of what nature?” I asked.
“I am not privy,” said he, “to the war conferences of the Kurii.”
“What is your charge in the desert, on behalf of Kurii?” I inquired.
“Their work,” said he.
“And of late?” I asked.
“To precipitate war,” said he, “between the Kavars and Aretai, and their vassal
tribes, to close the desert to strangers intruders.”
“Such as agents of Priest-Kings?” I asked.
“They, and any others unwelcome now in the dune country,” said he.
“Can your men not police the dune country?” I asked.
“We are too few,” said he. “The risk of some Aretai slipping through would be
too great.” In Aretai Gorean, the same expression is used for stranger and
enemy.
“So you enlist the desert on your behalf?” I said.
“Inadvertently,” he said, “thousands of warriors, preparing, hasten even now to
do my bidding, to fly at one another’s throats.”
“Many men will die,” cried Hassan, “both Aretai Kavars and Aretai and of the
vassal tribes! It must be stopped! They must be warned!”
“It is necessary,” said Ibn Saran to him. “I am sorry.”
A slave hood was pulled over the bead of Hassan. His fists were clenched. It was
locked under his chin.
“One gains a victory’ “ said Ibn Saran, “but one loses an enemy.” He looked at
me. He unsheathed his scimitar.
“No,” I said. “I will march to Klima.”
“I am prepared to be merciful,” said he, “Comrade.”
“No,” I said.
“It is cool here,” be said. “Your death would be swift.”
“No,” I said.
“You are of the Warriors,” said he. “You have their stupidity, their grit, their
courage.”
“I will march to Klima,” I said.
He lifted the scimitar before me, in salute. “March then,” said he, “to Klima.”
He resheathed the blade, swiftly. He turned his kaiila. He rode down the line,
the burnoose swelling behind him.
Hamid, who was lieutenant to Shaker, captain of the Aretai, now in the red sand
veil of the men of the Guard of the Dunes, stood near.
“I ride with the chain,” he said.
“I shall enjoy your company,” I said.
“You will feel my whip, “ he’ said.
I saw the kneeling kaiila of the guards, the guards now mounted, lifting
themselves, to their feet. I surveyed the number of kaiila which bore water.
“Klima is close,” I said.
“It is far,” he said.
“There is not enough water,” I said,
“There is more than enough,” said he. “Many will not reach Klima.”
“Am I to reach Klima?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Hamid, “should you be strong enough.”
“What if difficulties should arise, unanticipated, on the journey,” I asked.
“Then,” said Hamid, “unfortunately, I shall be forced to slay you in the chain.”
“Is it important that I reach Klima?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Hamid.
“Why?” I asked.
“You have given Kurii, and their agents, much trouble,” said he. “You have
opposed yourself to their will. Tarl Cabot, thus, will serve at Klima.”
“Tarl Cabot, thus,” I repeated, “will serve at Klima.”
“Look,” said Hamid. He pointed to a window, narrow, high in the wall.
I looked up.
At the window, veiled in yellow, behind her a slave master, stood a female
slave.
Gracefully the girl, doubtless with the permission of the slave master, removed
her veil. It was Vella.
“You remember, perhaps,” said Hamid, looking up, “the delicious slave, Vella,
whom the Kurii found of much use, who testified against you in the court at Nine
Wells, who, by her false testimony, attempted to send you to the pits of Klima?”
“I recall the slave,” I said. “She is the girl-property of Ibn Saran.”
I recalled her well
“It is she,” said Hamid, indicating the girl in the narrow window, the slave
master behind her.
“Yes,” I said. “I see.”
The girl looked down upon me. She smiled, scornfully. She had begged in Lydius
to be freed. I had not known until then that she was true slave. But I would
have known it now, seeing the insolence, the petty, collared beauty of her. I
stood below her in the chain of salt slaves. Female slaves, cringing and
obsequious, fearing free men, often display contempt for male slaves. Sometimes
they even flaunt their beauty before them, in their walk and movements, to
torture them, knowing that the male slave may he slain for so much as touching
their silk. I could see that she was much pleased to see me, helpless and in the
chain to Klima. I could see in her smile how she looked upon me, as a female
slave upon a male slave, but I could see, too, in her smile, the pleasure of her
triumph.
“A delicious day for the slave,” said Hamid.
“True,” I said.
Then the girl, reaching within her silk, withdrew from her bosom a light square
of silk, some eighteen inches square, scarlet, clinging, diaphanous.
She turned to the slave master behind her. She requested of him something. He
seemed adamant. Her attitude was one of begging. With a laugh, he acceded to her
request. Triumphantly she turned again to the window and dropped the silk from
the aperture. Gracefully, it wafted downward, settling on the sand at the foot
of the wall near us.
“Bring it,” said Hamid to a man.
The man picked it up, smelled it and laughed, and brought it to Hamid.
Hamid held it. It was laden with slave perfume. It was slave silk.
“A token,” I said.
“The token of a slave girl.” said Hamid contemptuously. Hamid thrust and twisted
the square of silk in the metal of my collar, and yanked it tight. “Remember her
at Klima,” he said.
She had testified against me at Nine Wells. She Had smiled when I had been
sentenced there to the pits of Klima.
I looked up, the silk fastened in my collar.
She looked down upon me, as a female slave upon a male slave. And, too, more
than this, she looked down upon me in triumph. Her face was flushed. It was red
with pleasure, transfused with joy. How deliciously sweet did she find her petty
feminine vengeance! How foolish I thought her. Did she not know I was Gorean?
Did she not know I would come back for her?
But it was said none returned from Klima.
I looked up at her.
I resolved that I would return from Klima.
“Remember her at Klima,” said Hamid.
“Yes,” I said.
I would remember her. I would remember her well.
In the window the girl stiffened. The man behind her Had said something to her.
She turned to him, agonized. She pleaded with him. This time his face remained
impassive. Angrily she turned to the window again. She smiled. She blew a kiss
toward me, in the Gorean fashion, brushing it toward me with her fingers. Then,
swiftly, she turned and left the window.
“Is she not,” I asked, “to be permitted to look out, to see us begin the march
to Klima?”
“She is a slave girl,” said Hamid. “It will not be permitted her.”
“I see,” I said.
One often denies slave girls small pleasures and gratifications, It teaches
them, the more deeply, that they are slaves.
Some kaiila moved by, laden with various supplies. Some guards rode by.
I smelled the slave perfume. I recalled it from the palace of Suleiman Pasha,
when the girl, with Zaya, the other slave, had served black wine. A rich master
will often have individual perfumes specially blended and matched to the slave
nature of his various girls. All are slaves, completely, but each girl,
collared, imbonded, is deliciously different. Some slave perfumes are right for
some slaves, and others not. Vella’s perfume, I thought, doubtless a tribute to
the skills of some perfumer, had suited her superbly. It fitted her well, like a
measured collar.
I smiled. Perhaps Vella, even now, had been returned to the quarters for female
slaves, where she would wait until commanded by men, perhaps to her exercises or
bath, or silks, or cosmetics, to her beautification, or to small, suitable
servile tasks, or perhaps to the couch of her master, or to those to whom he saw
fit to give her. But it was early. Doubtless her silk had merely been taken from
her and she had been commanded to her stomach, head to the wall, in her alcove,
and the small, square gate had been locked behind her. These two precautions are
common in female seraglios in the Tahari. When the girl lies on her stomach, her
head to the wall, she cannot prevent the door from locking behind her.
Furthermore, the small opening, approximately eighteen inches square, and set
some ten inches off the floor, in the bars, with its small, heavy gate, can be
easily negotiated only on the hands and knees. A girl cannot dart from a typical
Tahari female-slave alcove. That she must enter and leave it on her hands and
knees is thought to have a desirable psychological effect on the girl,
impressing on even a haughty girl that she is only slave. Too, of course, this
posture, on the girl’s part, makes it convenient to leash her upon leaving the
alcove.
I looked up at the window, in which the girl had stood. It was now empty.
Doubtless Vella, even now, in the quarters for female slaves, lay in her
cushioned, barred alcove. Perhaps her small fists were clenched, as she lay nude
on the silks, the cushions, on her stomach, head to the wall, behind the ornate
bars of her tiny, luxurious kennel. The tiny, iron door, heavy, barred, would
shut behind her, locking. She was not to be permitted to watch in triumph my
departure for Klima. What she had failed to do at Nine Wells, her master, Ibn
Saran, silken, pantherlike and lithe, had well accomplished. The small,
delicious owned brunet would not be permitted to watch. She would be denied that
gratification, that pleasure. She would be shut instead in her alcove-cell. She
was slave, only slave.
I smiled. I inhaled the perfume. Hamid took from a man nearby a slave hood. I
saw the sky, grayish, the descending moons, the desert, and then the hood was
pulled over my head, jerked tight, and locked.
We trudged, climbing, chained, and hooded, half dragged, tortuously, up the long
slope. Time seemed measured insteps, the blows of the whip, the slow turning of
the sun, over the Ahn, from one shoulder through the heat to the other.
For twenty days had we marched. Some thought it a hundred. Many had lost count.
More than one man raved, insane in the chain. We had begun with some two hundred
and fifty men. The chain was
heavier now. Lengths had been removed from it. But
still was it heavier. We did not know how many now carried the chain, or the
remaining lengths.
Normally one does not move on the desert in the day, but the march to Klima is
made in the sun, that only the strong will survive. We were given little to eat,
but much water. In the desert, without water, even the strong die swiftly.
“Kill us! Kill us!” one man kept screaming.
At the crest of the slope we heard a man call “Hold!” The chain stopped.
I sank to my knees, the crusts about my thighs. The inside of the slave hood
seemed bright and granular. Even within it I closed my eyes. I held my hands, my
neck, as still as possible, for the least movement would shift the collar, the
manacles, the chain at my waist, and stir burning iron in the raw, abraded
flesh. I did not wish to lose consciousness. Too many I feared who had lost it
had not regained it. The guards of the chain did not see fit to dally overlong
with the inert.
The salt clung to my body.
The sun was the sun of the late spring in the Tahari. The surface temperature of
The crusts would be in the neighborhood of 160 degrees Fahrenheit. The air
temperature would range from 120 to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The marches to Klima
are not made in the Tahari summer, only in the winter, the spring and fall, that
some will survive them.
I lifted my head to the sun, and shut my eves against the redness, the heat and
refulgence that seemed to fill the hood. I put down my head. Even in the hood I
sensed the reflected heat radiating from the crusts.
It pleases Kurii, I thought, that Tart Cabot will serve at Klima. How amusing
they would find that. There was a bit of silk, now doubtless bleached by the
sun, thrust and wrapped in my collar. Doubtless another, too, would be pleased
that I served at Klima.
A kaiila moved swiftly past me, its paws scattering salt. I felt it in the marks
on my back, and in the chain sores.
“Kill us! Kill us!” the man screamed again, from somewhere in the chain behind
me, several collars away.
Another kaiila moved past me, moving toward the front of the chain. My fists
clenched.
I wondered if I could endure another day. I knew that I could. I had much to
live for. There was a bit of silk, wrapped, fastened in the collar I wore.
Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt Page 31